


Kiss Of Death

by tieressian



Series: Paranormal, Supernatural, and Mythological AUs No One Asked For [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, As you do, Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Grim Reapers, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Reapers, Slow Dancing, World War II, bucky barnes would flirt with death and ill die by that claim, bucky casually seducing the literal embodiment of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: "You’re supposed to be a hooded skeleton, not a pretty dame.”* * * *You are Death. And boy, are you tired of it. But when Bucky Barnes stumbles into your existence, the only human to see you before their time:Maybe you'll finally discover what it means to live.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Paranormal, Supernatural, and Mythological AUs No One Asked For [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761511
Comments: 65
Kudos: 171





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be writing this? No.
> 
> Will I write it anyway? Yes.
> 
> Reader is based off of Death from my favorite book, The Book Thief. As well as this image:
> 
> Updates should be fairly consistent (every 1-2 days), considering how short the chapters are and how many I already have written. (But who am I kidding, we all know me)
> 
> Either way, hope you enjoy!
> 
> ([Quote](https://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Lies-Painful-Truths-1/dp/1978175736) I used later on in the story)

You grow weary of death.

It’s rather funny, you suppose, to grow tired of the very idea one represents. To wish for another calling; maybe carpentry, or perhaps farming.

But alas, humor is all you have left. The only thing that remains as your bare feet ache and your shoulders draw tight, weary from the weight of souls on your back. White robes trailing through the mud, the snow, the earth; never stained and never tiring.

You are here, you are there. You are everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

You are death.

And you are tired.

For there is war, and sickness, and fleas and viruses and floods. The extraordinary and mundane, the interesting and banal, the strange and typical. But death is death is death, and the circumstances in which you’ve been called matter little to you. It’s not like you can change them, afterall.

For you are merely death, and the living are notoriously unpredictable.

And stubborn, too. If the boy before you is any indication.

You’ve met him on multiple occasions, actually. Little Stevie Rogers, never meant to live past the age of three. Crooked spine and failing lungs and a weak heart that can hardly keep him going.

Yet here he is, age sixteen.

Dying of pneumonia.

You silently pad into the room, floorboards creaking beneath your feet as you make your way to the cot in the corner. Golden sunlight streams through the closed curtains and dapples the twisted sheets, fabric rustling as the boy curled up on the mattress begins to cough. And cough and cough and _cough_.

You don’t loom, you don’t crowd; you settle in by his bedside and reach out, fingers brushing over his stuttering chest as you grasp for the soul resting within. Cradling, holding, waiting.

“What are you doing!?” states an accusing voice to your right, the unexpected interruption making you start. You turn your head and sigh, taking in puffy red eyes and a dishevelled mop of brown hair. White knuckles clutching at Steve’s hand as he kneels at his bedside, staring up at you with a defiant glare in his eyes that is all too familiar.

Bucky Barnes.

You met him once before, for a fleeting moment. When he was drunk and laughing and plunged into the pier, taking in a lungful of water as he flailed and kicked. Dragged out of the ocean coughing and heaving, cursing god and Wilson for starting the ‘goddamn prohibition.’

He didn’t see you then, but he sees you now.

No one ever sees you.

(At least, not until the end).

“Who are you?” he interrogates, standing to his feet and staring you down. Seventeen years old and still settling into his body, tall and lanky with muscles beginning to fill him out. Strong jaw and clefted chin that undoubtedly makes the ladies swoon.

“I am Death,” you answer simply, for you have no other name to give.

His eyes widen, and he rushes forward and pushes you away. Nostrils flaring as he stands between you and Steve as if he could protect him from the inevitable.

“You stay away from him, ya hear me?” he threatens, glaring at you with an intensity that is rather impressive, “I ain’t gonna let you kill him.”

“I don’t kill anyone, James,” you say cooly, watching as he balks at his name, “I am simply, Death.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” he snarks, stealing a nervous glance at Steve who lays listlessly behind him, “besides, you don’t even look it. You’re supposed to be a hooded skeleton, not a pretty dame.”

You raise a brow, “if it makes you feel any better, I do have a scythe.” You pull a small, handheld scythe from your belt. The knobbly wood fitting in your palm as the silver arch of the blade glimmers wickedly.

He takes a nervous step back, shielding Steve behind his bulk as he eyes the blade warily, “what’re you gonna do with that? Steal his soul? Slice his throat?”

You purse your lips, biting back a smile as you flip the blade and catch it in your other hand, “it’s a scythe, James. It’s for reaping wheat.” He looks at you disbelievingly. And so, you hold it out to him; beckoning for him to grab hold of the handle.

Distrustfully, he reaches out and takes the scythe in hand. Running his thumb over the curve of the blade and curling his fingers around the handle. A crease of disappointment in his brow as no powers manifest, handing it back to you once his curiosity is sated.

You slip the scythe back into your belt, hands clasped behind your back as you watch Bucky kneel beside Steve once again. Settling in beside him with a gentle flutter of your robe.

“I’m not letting you take him,” Bucky says surely, watching the labored rise and fall of his friend's chest.

“I won’t,” you say, smiling softly as he turns to you with a bewildered expression on his face, “your friend has cheated me once again.”

He lets out a relieved laugh, stifling it with a cough as he turns to you. Tilting his head to the side and furrowing his brow, “aren’t you...angry?”

You shake your head. “I am tired, James,” you admit for the first time in millenia, “I am tired of death.”

“But you’re...aren’t you...?”

“Yes,” you smile wryly, “I _am_ Death.”

“So why?” he asks, “wouldn’t you _want_ more people to die?”

You look away, watching sunlight shift and morph over the ocean of dove-colored sheets. “Death is a burden not many can bear, and I begin to grow tired of it,” you sigh, “it is a thankless job, with little reward and much suffering on both ends.”

He stares down at his hands, mulling over your words as he examines the thick calluses on his palm, “you’re not like I thought you’d be.”

“You didn’t even know I existed,” you point out.

“That’s besides the point,” he huffs, “you’re actually...actually kinda nice.”

“Why, thank you,” a soft smile pulls at your lips as you catch his eye, “this is the longest conversation I’ve had since visiting my sister.”

“Sister?” he questions, shocked by this new development.

You nod. “She lives in the South, where it’s warm. Spends her days frolicking in the woods and wearing a flower crown. I haven’t seen her in say,” you think for a moment, “a thousand or so years. Refuses to speak to me after our last argument.”

He snorts, “she sounds like a jerk.”

You laugh, wiping an amused tear from the corner of your eye, “well, Life can be cruel. And humanity tends to pick favorites, regardless of character.”

His lips twist in a pondering expression, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket as steel blue eyes lock onto yours, “so why do people love her, and hate you?”

You stand up in one fluid motion, robes billowing out around you as you feel the tug of death against your heart. Smiling thankfully down at him as you begin to take your leave.

“Because she is a beautiful lie,

And I am a painful truth.”


	2. II

There is war.

War on a scale you’ve never seen. Death upon death upon death, blood running through the streets and staining the earth. Spine bowed with the weight of the dead, carrying them by the millions. Prying their souls from their broken, burning bodies and leading them to the After.

It’s rather sad, really. That arriving at the tailend of a mugging gone wrong brings such overwhelming relief. But you slip the poor girl’s soul from her body and settle her on your shoulder, looking up and startling as you spy a familiar silhouette in the neighboring apartment window.

And in a moment of selfish want, you hitch up your robe and leap. Phasing through the brick wall and landing gracefully on your feet, toes bare against the hardwood floor.

“Jesus!” Bucky jumps, whirling around to face you; service cap askew on his brow. Mouth agape as he silently takes you in, “you’re real.”

He has grown, has slipped on adulthood like a coat and stepped into the shoes of a man. He is tall, muscular yet lean; slicked back hair with the lightest dust of stubble growing in. Beige military uniform cinched tight around his waist, tight edges and crisp lines with stiff, broad shoulders.

“I am,” you answer simply, ignoring the lump in your throat as you look at a soldier doomed to walk into your arms.

“I thought I made you up,” he continues, taking a step closer as he looks you over with a glimmer in his eyes. Gaze flicking down to his uniform and smiling tightly, “well, you came just in time. I’m shipping out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I see,” you hum, feeling something tighten in your chest. You have seen horrors unimaginable. Have seen children beaten and left to starve, men brought to their knees and women forced to beg. Yet this moment feels all the more real.

“And if the great and powerful Death would be so inclined,” he gave a small bow, holding out his hand and playfully lifting his brows, “can I have a dance?”

You blink, muffling laughter in your palm as you accept his outstretched hand, “a dance with death, really?”

He laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. The likes of which you haven’t heard in centuries. Twirling you in his arms and turning on the record, the needle skipping and settling as swing music begins to play.

“Well, who am I to resist such a pretty looking gal?” he drawls, hand splayed on your hip and drawing you close.

You raise a brow, a smile curling your lips as you let him lead you around the room, “ _ flirting _ with death. Now that’s just foolish, James.”

“Aw, but you make it so difficult not to,” he winks, wincing out of principle as you deliberately step on his toes. The two of you spinning about and weaving through the apartment like old pros, the movements coming naturally as you follow his example. Kicking out your feet and twirling from side to side as your robes flay out like flower petals.

It’s a taste of a life you can never have, and you are hungry for it.

All too soon, the music comes to a stop; the needle scratching against the label as the record uselessly spins. The two of you pressed chest to chest, his giddy smile undoubtedly mirroring your own as you stare at one another.

“Yaknow, if you still have time,” he breathes, looking to the record player with a hopeful gleam in his eyes, “I’d love to dance with you again.”

Your cheeks hurt from all this smiling. “I am everywhere, James,” you grin, squeezing his hand in yours, “I have time to be here, for just a moment longer.”

A lopsided smirk pulls at his lips, keeping you close as he reaches out and flips the record. Letting the needle fall and grinning like a Cheshire cat as a slow song begins to play.

You raise a brow and your lip twitches, “James…”

“C’mon, it’s my last night here in Brooklyn. That’s gotta be worthy of  _ some _ special treatment,” he pesters, hands falling to your hips as he begins to sway from side to side. 

You relent to his movement, fingers smoothing over the stiff fabric of his jacket as they settle on his shoulders. Staring into his eyes as he anxiously worries his lower lip, expression heavy with questions left unasked.

“Something is bothering you, James,” you state bluntly, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Call me Bucky,” he insists, brows drawn together in deep thought. Parting his lips before asking, voice soft like a child’s, “do you...do you know if I die?”

You smile sadly, “you won’t know until it happens.”

You lapse into silence, the air heavy with uncertainty and a loss that has yet to come. The record drawing to a close as the needle drags harshly against the label, the noise grating in the quiet of the room. You stay there for a moment--imagining you’re someone you’re not--before pulling back and letting your arms fall to your sides.

He gives you a sad sort of smile, ducking his head and glancing up at you from beneath his lashes, “well then, guess I’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t say that,” you admonish weakly, though you know he is right.

“I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna see alotta you, out there,” his smile falters.

You say nothing.

For it is the truth.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: death, blood/gore, bullet wounds, battle

There’s a boy named Jimmy who wants to be a pianist.

He’s a good, strong kid. With thin, knobbly fingers and birdcage ribs that stick out from his chest. Satin soft palms that look unnatural curled around a gun. He’s just at the cusp of adulthood, barely making the draft despite being so uncharacteristically small.

He looks tiny now, with a bullet torn through his stomach.

You swan across the battlefield with quiet grace, souls hanging from your fingertips as you gather them in your palms. Pearly white robe untouched as you stride through the blood slick dirt. Bullets whizzing by as you carefully weave between the rubble.

With a graceful hop, you jump down into the trench and sidestep the rush of soldiers. Head bowed as you approach the dying boy, kneeling down beside him in the muddy sludge.

“You’re gonna be fine, kid” his sergeant comforts, wild eyes locking onto yours and shifting closer, “this is nothin’, you’re gonna walk this off and go on home.” Bucky looks up at you in sheer panic, fingers stained red as the last dregs of innocence whirl away before your eyes. Clutching at Jimmy’s ruined stomach in a fruitless attempt to staunch the bleeding, wet paper mache beneath his shaking fingers.

Solemnly, you stretch out your hands and reach underneath Jimmy’s ribs, coaxing his hummingbird soul out from his body. There’s a tug of resistance, and his soul remains stubbornly glued to his ribs. Beating its wings against the cage as if to say ‘come and get me,’ trilling and whistling in fearful bravado.

“Talk to him,” you whisper, catching Bucky’s eyes as they dart to meet yours, “he’s scared, and he’ll only suffer if he stays.” He opens his mouth in protest, jaw snapping shut as he finally gives in. Tired and resigned as he stares down at the dying boy and plasters on a reassuring smile.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he lies, “they’re gonna send you back to your ma, you hear me? Back to that sweetheart of yours,” a stilted pause, “you’re a good man, Jim.” His smile wavers as Jimmy’s eyes go blank, soul slipping from his body and perching on your shoulder like a parrot.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jimmy startles, “I’m dead aren’t I?”

You nod, watching as Bucky balls his fists and punches the dirt. Teeth gritted and cursing under his breath as he closes Jimmy’s eyes with his dirt-smudged fingers.

“Jesus,” Jimmy breathes, “and what does that make you, my guardian angel?”

“I’m flattered,” you answer kindly. Bucky’s eyes jumping to meet yours, blind to the ghost hovering over your shoulder, “I am Death.”

“Death?” he squeaks, “Jesus Mary and Joseph...wait...can sarge see you?” You hum in admission, hands folded in front of you as Bucky furrows his brow in confusion, “can you...can you pass along a message?”

“I can.”

“Tell him...tell him to tell my ma I love her. And that...that I’m sorry, that it’s not his fault,” he thinks for a moment, “and that there are some cigarettes at the bottom of my pack, in the sardine tin.”

You laugh, eyes warm as you go to relay his message. Taking Bucky’s hands in yours and squeezing softly, “he says he’s sorry, that it’s not your fault.”

He inhales sharply, “Jimmy?” Eyes wide like saucers as you nod.

“Hey sarge,” Jimmy salutes invisibly, elbows stiff and joints locked.

“He wants you to tell his mom he loves her,” you continue, “and that there are cigarettes in his pack, the sardine tin.”

He laughs wetly, shaking his head as he clutches your fingers, “I fuckin’ knew it, Jimmy. You lyin’ bastard.” Jimmy sniggers, and the laughter is contagious; the three of you giggling like schoolgirls in the midst of battle.

There is war.

But sometimes, there is closure.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: death, mention of torture, mention of war

Sometimes you wish you could intervene.

But there are Consequences with a capital-C. And though you have long since forgotten the specifics, you’ve known from the very beginning that you are not to meddle. Have known since you first stepped into the world, born from space and time and the warm bubble in between. Cloaked in white with a scythe at your hip; obsidian ribs and abalone heart, whipcord spine and cow leather soles. 

But never before has this traitorous desire been more potent.

For humanity is capable of unimaginable cruelty (and that is nothing new). Bullets that tear and gasses that choke, knives that maim and words that condemn. A fiery desire to  _ conquer _ and  _ control,  _ to command forces which they do not understand.

And you witness firsthand the casualties of these ambitions.

Men and women and children, indiscriminate in their death. Bloody and decimated, beaten and violated, starved and tortured. Railing and fighting and  _ screaming _ to live, to have  _ just one second more.  _ And  _ just give me another chance. I haven’t done everything yet, I haven’t told her I love her, I haven’t  _ **_lived_ ** _. _

But you are not Life.

You are Death.

And Death stops for no one.

Then there are those who let you Take them. Too tired, too battle-weary, unable to find the will to continue. Praying and begging for you to arrive, some even calling you by their own volition. Sunken eyes and heavy hearts that lift once their souls come into your gentle grasp.

They are broken souls.

And you find many, in Austria.

Worn down and broken in like wild horses, forced to work until they drop; and then made to keep on going. Hungering for agency, hungering for freedom. Hungering for, quite simply,  _ food _ .

But you can not give them these things.

But for some…

You can give  _ justice. _

And that, you suppose, is what happens when you Take Colonel Lohmer.

You have no sympathy for a man who’s caused so much suffering, a man who aligns himself with a cause just to sate his thirst for power and sovereignty (especially a cause as disgusting as Nazism). Death may be impartial, but there is no neutrality when you rip his soul from his body and shove him into the After. Leaving his fate to those far wiser than you.

And it is when you tear his soul from his chest that you see him, your soldier.

Bucky.

He is near death himself, hair matted and blood smeared across his cheek. Bruised and battered with his shirt torn and fingernails chewed to the quick. Dog tags hang loosely around his neck as he stares at you from behind thick, iron bars. Locked inside a crowded cage like a rabid mutt.

Something pinches in your chest as you stare at him, the desire to interfere increasing tenfold as he curls his fingers around the bars. Leaning forward and pleading with his eyes, steel blue brimming with hurt as you sadly shake your head. You take a delicate step forward, laying your hand atop his own and pressing your forehead to his. A silent exchange passing between you before you pull back, a melancholic smile pulling at your lips. A promise and a vow wrapped in one.

_ I’ll see you again. _


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of torture, mention of disturbing historical events, mentions of death

Death stops for no one.

It doesn’t stop for the little boys and girls in Auschwitz. It doesn’t stop for the single mother bleeding out in Nanking, nor the elderly veteran starving to death in Stalingrad.

And it doesn’t stop for Bucky Barnes.

Death is running through his veins and pumping through his blood. Death is in the air he breathes and the table he lies on, leather straps criss-crossed over his chest and pinning him down. It’s in his cells and his bones and has been written down in his DNA since birth. DNA that is now being altered, shifted. Double helices split and reassembled to be stronger, faster, darker.

Different.

It is a scenario that is all too familiar. Another young man sent to die, another experimentee sacrificed in the name of progress, another soldier dying for a country that forsakes them. Another tally, another number:

Another soul to Take.

That familiarity sinks into your bones as you step inside the room. Head bowed as if marching in a funeral procession, footsteps heavy as your bare feet skip over concrete. Pearly white standing out against dingy grey; a lone dove flying through the smog.

(To be perfectly honest, you prefer ravens).

And like a ghost shrouded in white, you settle in beside your soldier. Blue eyes boring into yours like an icepick through a glacier, panicked yet resolute with a stubbornness that puts even Steve Rogers to shame.

_Not yet, dammit._

And while Death doesn’t yield for many…

It yields for Bucky Barnes.

It kneels down beside him and twines their fingers together (mindful of the IV that pumps poison into his veins). Brushes his hair back and stands in silent solidarity, cradling his soul as it balances on a knife's edge. Teetering between life and oblivion, dangling on a precipice as it’s buffeted from one side to another; fighting not to fall.

And when the pig-nosed scientist comes to tear him apart. 

You hold him together.

For you are everywhere at once, and you can stand to be here for just a little while longer. (A little while turns into hours, turns into days, turns into weeks. And yet, you stay). A quiet, comforting presence that only he can see. Support that never wanes, even when he fights not to cry; when his eyes grow dull and the only words he speaks is his serial number.

And in the brief spans in between, where the room is empty and he is left alone.

You speak.

You speak more than you have in centuries: millenia, even. Filling the silence with stories and songs that have long since been forgotten in the shifting sands of time. You tell him of the Mayans, of the Library of Alexandria and the fall of Rome. Of civilizations and revolutions and wars that seemed to rage for centuries. The little pond you’d stumbled across in Southern Italy, the flock of ravens that followed you for at least half a century. Edgar Allan Poe and Shakespeare and Marie Antoinette, Plato and Aristotle and Sappho. The young monk who drank himself into a stupor, the hardworking serf who’d had enough and ran, the seamstress who fell in love and fled with her girlfriend. People and places and histories that no one but Death remembers.

He listens, of that you are certain. Enraptured by the tales that spill from your lips like polished jewels and tumbled gold. Wide-eyed and captivated as he stares at you with a soft sort of vulnerability. A vulnerability he only shows when it’s just you and him.

A vulnerability that has since been beaten out of him.

And you feel it, in your gut, when the tide shifts towards Life. When the explosions start and Death is needed elsewhere, no longer able to stand idle by his side.

No longer able to _be_.

And so, for the first time in many days, you rise to your feet. Bones aching and joints stiff with an oh-so familiar pain. Curling a hand over his heart and swallowing past the lump in your throat as he stares blankly ahead, mumbling mechanically as he gazes unblinkingly up at the ceiling.

“Sergeant 32557038…” he slurs, hardly reacting as you brush a strand of hair off his forehead for what feels like the millionth time.

“James, I have to go,” you whisper, wetting your lips as you feel the tug of death grow stronger, “help is coming, but you must stay strong.”

“Sergeant 325--” he repeats, trailing off with a start as you bend down and gently press your lips to his forehead. A soft smile tugging at your lips as you pull away and watch his eyes clear ever-so slightly.

“‘Til we meet again,” you whisper, robes trailing at your ankles as you turn on your heel and swan out of the room. Steps faltering as you hear a begging whimper sound from behind you, forging onward with a determined set to your jaw.

You have souls to take; soldiers to help, Nazis to punish.

And as you stride down the halls, you give a respectful nod to Steve Rogers as he rushes past.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller.”


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not feeling very confident about this chapter, but I'm posting it anyway.
> 
> Also, reader has been given an actual name. So I'm sorry if that bothers you! (If you'd like to replace it, I recommend the Interactive Fics chrome extension)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

It is...nice.

To have a friend.

You suppose that’s what you are, you and Bucky. Friends. Though it’s not like you’d know otherwise.

Not many are willing to fraternize with Death.

But Bucky has defied the norm, for some reason or another. And the two of you have stumbled into a wonderful--if not tentative--friendship. The likes of which you’ve not had in...ever.

_ The bar is raucous, the sheer amount of life brimming within enough to knock you off your feet. Drinks and dancing and music that warms something deep inside of you, golden yellow lamplight that spills over the hardwood floors like honey dripped over oak. Warm and sweet and  _ **_alive._ **

_ There is no place for Death here. And yet, you stay. Weaving between the patrons as you make your way to the familiar figure sitting at the bar, settling in beside him like you’ve done so many times before. _

_ “I’m not about to drop dead, am I?” Bucky smirks, frosted glass clutched in hand as he swallows down a bitter shot of whiskey. Patting the empty barstool to his right with an expectant look on his handsome face. _

_ “Just checking in,” you admit, hesitantly stepping up onto the barstool and daintily crossing your legs. You feel out of place, unwanted. And if anyone else could see you, there would be alot of glares directed your way. _

_ “Well, that’s a relief,” he jokes, setting down his glass and trailing his fingers through the condensation, “it’s good to see you, anyway.” _

_ You raise a brow, “most men wouldn’t want to see Death.” _

_ He cocks a brow in turn, “I’m not like most men.” _

_ “That’s a very bold statement, James,” you tease, propping your elbow up on the bartop and resting your chin in your palm. Cheeks flushed as you bask in his attentions, refusing to admit that he is right. _

_ “I told you to call me Bucky,” he objects, taking another sip from his glass and ignoring the weird look the bartender sends his way, “besides, who wouldn’t want to see a beautiful gal like you?” _

_ You blush and duck your head, looking out over the room and bouncing your foot as music plays in the distance. A small smile on your lips as you watch men and women alike jump to their feet and dance, twirling in each other's arms without a care in the world; forgetting the war for just one, precious moment. _

_ You wish you could, too. _

_ Forget. _

_ “Yaknow, we could dance, too,” he offers, noticing the longing glint in your eyes as you watch the happy couples, “show ‘em a thing or two.” _

_ You smile, looking him in the eye and feeling your chest grow warm. “I’d love to, but…” you tilt your head towards the staring patrons, “they might not think too kindly of you, what with you already talking to yourself.” _

_ He snorts and downs the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass on the counter and wetting his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. Leaning forward and laying a confident hand on your thigh, the touch burning through fabric and scorching your skin as he whispers in your ear, “well, doll, what  _ I _ think is—” _

_ Circumstance decides to ruin the moment, and Captain Rogers slides into the seat opposite Bucky and claps a hand on his shoulder. The latter starting and reluctantly turning away to meet his friend's smiling gaze, removing his hand from your thigh and leaving a phantom feeling of warmth in his wake.  _

_ You shift and fidget as much as your robes will allow, quelling the bloom of affection firmly rooted in your chest. Simple affection that threatens to grow and snarl your heart in a tangle of cursed attachment. _

_ For you are Death, and Death stops for no one. _

_ No exceptions. _

_ The two men talk for a moment, and just before you move to leave, Peggy Carter walks in. The whole bar going silent as her quiet majesty renders them speechless. All eyes are on her, a few envious ones flicking to the Captain as they fall into easy conversation; the tension thick enough to cut with a blunt butter knife. _

_ But Bucky? _

_ His eyes never leave yours. _

Just...friendship.

A friendship that slowly, tentatively—like a dandelion blooming in concrete—grows into something more. Petals unfurling and flowers blossoming in a colorful plume of promise. Soft and fragile, but more than ready to take root and grow strong.

And that scares you more than anything. 

For you see, Death doesn’t have a happy ending.

Death  _ is  _ the ending.

But that doesn’t stop you from hoping. Doesn’t stop you from indulging in such blissful normalcy, from following Bucky and his motley crew of soldiers around Europe like a stray cat trailing a street vendor. The unofficial mascot that no one can actually see.

And that’s where you are now, skulking around the edge of the Commandos’ camp and needlessly sneaking inside. Slipping into one of the tents as easily as a breeze, tent flaps closing behind you as filtered light dapples the uneven ground.

“Deedee!” Bucky exclaims, shooting up in his cot and fixing you with a thousand megawatt smile, “it’s been a while.”

Your lips tug upwards, twisting wryly as you acknowledge the name he’s gifted you, “Deedee?”

“Well I can’t keep calling you ‘Death’ in my head. It ain’t polite,” he shrugs, beaming up at you in a way that makes your heart flip, “hope you don’t mind…”

“No, not at all. I love it,” you smile, a sunburst of warmth exploding in your chest, “but isn’t there supposed to be a last name, too?”

“How’s ‘Barnes’ sound?” he says smoothly, not even missing a beat.

“James…” you whisper, heart pounding against your ribs in a fast, hopeful rhythm.

“I know now’s not really the time, but doll, I’m crazy about you,” he admits, wringing his hands together in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, all-powerful being or no. And I dunno how it’ll even work, with you being Death and all. But if I make it through this war, I wanna go steady with you. White picket fence, family dog, all of it. An’ I’m probably scaring you off right now, but you just gotta know—“

Breaking off his spiral, you stoop down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Cupping his jaw in your hand and brushing your fingers over his prickled stubble, pulling back and resting your forehead against his.

“Is that a yes?” He breathes, a hint of familiar vulnerability in his words.

“It’s a very strong maybe,” you answer, kissing his cheek and pulling away, “I’m holding you to it, no dying.”

“No dying,” he echoes, hand laid over his heart. A solemn smile on his face as he unconsciously gravitates closer towards you.

And for one, foolish moment.

You believe him.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of disturbing historical events, gore, blood

Foolish.

Foolish foolish  _ foolish. _

_ Foolish  _

_ Foolish _

_ Foolish _

**_Foolish._ **

(How could you have been so  _ stupid.  _ How could you let yourself think you’d ever be happy, ever find peace, stability,  _ love.  _ Think that it wouldn’t end this way, cold and abandoned and with his  _ goddamn arm torn off--) _

Death stops for no one.

It doesn’t stop for the Japanese families leaping to their deaths. Doesn’t stop for the US soldiers bleeding out in the dirt, nor the German infantry's freezing to death in Russia. The school children caught beneath rubble and the little girl’s trampled to death in the ghettos. It Takes and Takes and Takes like a beast who’ll never be satisfied. Mothers and sons and uncles and nieces, generals and prostitutes and anyone and anything who has a heartbeat to snuff out.

Even the ones you love.

There’s a heaviness to your footsteps as you trudge through the thick, powdery snow. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, spine curved in with the cumbersome weight of a million war-weary souls.

Yet just this one is enough to break you.

You fall to your knees with a muffled thud, the roaring wind whipping at your robes and stealing the breath from your lungs. The biting cold a distant afterthought as your feet dig painfully into the flaking ice, fingers reaching out to grasp at the lapels of a familiar blue jacket. Twisting the fabric and fraying the wool as if your flimsy grip could change anything.

“Oh James,” you murmur comfortingly. Tamping down the wavering of your voice as you curl inwards, pitifully shielding him from the brutal onslaught of snow and sleet, “I’m here.”

Steel blue eyes slide over to meet yours, head lolling to the side as Bucky stares up at you with fearful understanding. Red furls of blood spreading across the snow like flower petals, the pulverized remains of his left arm staining the pristine sheet of ice. Pearly white bone sticking out from the fleshy mess, gristly and bloody and far-too familiar for your liking.

His remaining fingers twitch, nailbeds pale and purpling around the edges as you twine your fingers with his. Heat bleeding from your palm into his shaking hand, color returning to his frostbitten skin only to be immediately wicked away by the cold.

“‘M sorry, Deedee,” he whispers, voice weak and stolen away by the biting wind, “I broke my promise, didn’t I?”

You press your lips together and duck your head, watching the hope ebb out of him as your silence speaks for you. You have no empty words to offer, no reassurances or falsehoods to gift like coal packaged in a pretty box. No ‘you’ll be okay’s, or ‘everything’s gonna be fine’s.

For you are Death.

And there is no lying about that.

“Does,” he swallows, snow dusting his too-pale cheeks in a way that is strangely beautiful, “does it hurt?”

“No,” you reassure him, shifting closer and drawing your legs up beneath you. Knowing exactly what he’s talking about without him even saying your name, “it’s like slipping out of your shirt. Quick and easy.” It’s the before that’s painful. The fall and the landing, the blood and the snow, the cold and the wind.

Alone.

But not quite.

He nods, though it seems to take a lot out of him (he’s stopped shaking, you observe. And distantly you realize that’s a bad thing), “and is there...is there a Heaven?”

“I suppose so,” you muse, holding his hand close to your chest and ignoring how his fingers are loose in yours, “there’s the After. And the After...the After is whatever you make of it,” you pause, smiling softly as you look down at his pallid face, “so yes, it seems there is a Heaven.”

“Won’t be Heaven without you,” he murmurs, and you’re suddenly aware of the ache in your chest. The tears that threaten to spill for the first time in...ever.

For you are Deedee.

And you want your James.

“I’ll be there,” you promise. Uncertain but with enough raw determination that your words ring true, “we’ll have that picket fence, the dog, three kids and a pretty house in the suburbs with white trim.”

“Three kids?” he teases, a weak smile barely pulling at his lips.

“First number that came to mind,” you grin.

His head lists to the side, gaze locked onto yours as his eyes begin to glaze over. “Promise?” he says softly, voice weak like a child’s. Fear grasping him in its talons despite your many reassurances.

“Promise,” you echo, bowing down and pressing your lips to his in a sorrowful kiss. Cold, chapped lips frozen against yours as you pull back and smile sadly. Reaching up beneath his ribs and gently coaxing out his soul, warmth spreading through your palm as the glowing wisp nuzzles into your hand. Drawing out your love and cradling him close to your chest.

A beat passes, the world stuck still as you clutch Bucky’s soul in your hands.

Then his soul slips from your grasp and crashes back into his body. A door slammed shut and locked as he suddenly gasps for breath, reeling as he stares up at you in muted confusion. You return his bewildered stare, glancing up and furrowing your brow as you spot a soldier trekking through the snow. His eyes deadset on Bucky as he trudges up the incline towards you.

You rise to your feet, robes tangled at your ankles as you watch the man shout something in Russian. Other soldiers stepping out from the trees and grabbing ahold of Bucky’s remaining arm, dragging him off to places unknown. Dutifully, you follow behind them, eyes locked on Bucky as he sends you a loopy smile.

“Don’t worry, Deedee,” he grins, “guess I’m goin’ home after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha...
> 
> I'm sorry


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay the timelines kinda iffy with this one, but just roll with me, okay? :)
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW: gory, medical procedures, drugging

He did not go home. 

You did not get your white picket fence, nor the dog. No children and no house to speak of.

Instead, there is pain. There are injections and beatings and experiments, cold cells and mealy food that nearly kills him. Broken dreams and shattered sanity with a heaping helping of desolation. 

But, much like always, there’s a frayed thread of hope; shoved deep down in the yawning abyss of your chest. Hope that you’ll someday find your happily ever after.

Yeah, you’ve long since learned your lesson about hope.

But, despite the insurmountable odds, it remained. Wrapped around your pinky finger and tangled in a flimsy, yet unbreakable knot. A tentative thread of faith that was choppy around the edges, but still remained perfectly intact (for the most part). 

But you know Hydra, know the people that have taken your love captive. Know them from the massacres, the assassinations; the abuse and the experiments and the blatant abuse of life for the sake of the ‘greater good.’

You know what happens to those caught in their grasp.

And you are afraid. So very, very afraid.

But you don’t show it, for Bucky’s sake moreso than yours. Plastering a smile on your face like paint over rot, pushing down the urge to intervene like a mouse holding back the tide. Resolve growing weaker and weaker each time he cries out; caving under the torture like a tower of blocks beneath a toddler’s pudgy fists.

And never before has your resolve been weaker.

“James, darling, stay strong,” you encourage. Huddling closer to the operating table as his soul twines around your fingers, slipping loose as the bone saw cruelly severs off the rest of his left arm, “it’ll be over soon.”

One way or another.

His head lists to the side, long, shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes as he stares up at you. Sweat dripping down his brow as he fights not to scream, ultimately losing the battle and letting loose a gut wrenching howl. Struggling against his restraints and trying futilely to pull away, desperation shining in his eyes like an animal that's been cornered.

“James, James!” you protest, carding a hand through his hair in an effort to calm him, “stay still, it’ll hurt more otherwise.”

Your words don’t seem to register, and he continues to kick and flail. Crying out in surprise as a needle plunges into his neck, his movements becoming sluggish as the drugs begin to take effect; eyes glazed and pupils blown as his head lolls back. Half-lidded gaze fixing on you as the technicians begin to fiddle with his eviscerated shoulder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you comfort, keeping his eyes on you as they drill metal pegs into his clavicle. Wires and circuits and a veritable scrapyard of metal dangling from his left shoulder, “I’m here, I’m here.”

His eyes soften ever so slightly, completely frozen still as he stares unblinkingly up at you (maybe that’s just the drugs).

“I’m right here, keep your eyes on me,” you stress, gaze flicking over to the gorey mess of his arm as they meld flesh with steel. He follows your stare, stopped by you cupping his jaw and tilting his head back towards you, “uh-uh, look at me. Just at me.”

He nods weakly, a single tear trailing down his cheek as they cauterize his bleeding arm. Soul loosening in his chest like a faulty bolt.

He shouts suddenly, wrenching out of your grip and staring wide-eyed at his finished arm. Flexing his fingers and watching in muted horror as the metal digits follow his instruction. A technician takes a looming step closer, and you can feel death in your heart as Bucky snaps his hand forward and wraps it around their neck. His face twisted in fear and confusion as the metal plates twitch of their own volition.

“James,” you whisper in warning, grimacing as another technician darts forward and jabs a needle straight into his heart. His muscles seizing and locking together as you watch the pig-nosed scientist--Zola. And in all honesty, you can’t wait ‘til you rip his rotten soul from his body--walk in. Smiling darkly as he pats Bucky’s new arm like a purring cat.

“Put him on ice,” Zola orders, and you can only watch as they cart Bucky out and shove him into a claustrophobic metal pod. Slamming the door shut with a blood-chilling air of finality.

Without a moment to lose, you rush forward and put your hand up to the glass. Fractals of ice forming over the frosted window and blocking out Bucky’s fear-stricken face. His metal hand rising up to meet your own, pressing his palm against the glass before his eyes unwittingly fall closed. Left arm dropping to his side like a dead weight. Soul hovering in his chest as it dangles between life and death like a swinging pendulum.

You bow your head and press your forehead to the glass. Squeezing your eyes shut and curling your fingers into a tight fist, slamming it against the pane and choking back a sob.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you whisper, “I’m just an old, old fool.”

_A fool in love._


	9. IX

Captain America is dead.

At least, that’s what the papers say.

You, however, know otherwise. Know about the fated crash, about the rush of arctic water that sent him crashing to the floor. Know how the ice locked around his body like tree roots around rock. How he closed his eyes fully expecting to die, yet his soul remained entrapped in the impenetrable cocoon of ice; frozen in time, indecisive between life and death.

You know this.

Bucky does not.

“I told you to stay away from him!” Bucky roars, blindly rushing you and stumbling as you sidestep his attack. Off-kilter and weak from the torture and starvation, hair falling in stringy clumps over his trembling shoulders. The newspaper loudly pronouncing  **CAPTAIN AMERICA SACRIFICES HIS LIFE** crumpled on the concrete floor of the cell.

“James,” you interrupt, taking another step back as he lunges towards you once again. Heart aching as you watch something  _ break  _ behind his eyes. 

“ _ Shut up!” _ he bellows, grabbing ahold of your robes and twisting the fabric between his fingers, “I was supposed to  _ protect  _ him, keep him  _ safe.  _ And I...I  _ failed. _ He’s dead and it’s my fault!” With a muffled sob he falls to his knees, burying his face in your stomach and winding his arms around your waist. Wetting the fabric with his own tears as you gently run your fingers through his hair. Shushing him gently as his spine bows and shoulders shake with heart-wrenching sobs.

“James,” you whisper, curling your fingers around his jaw and tilting his head upwards, “Steve’s not dead.”

A moment passes as his breath hitches, a sob catching in his throat as your words sink in. And slowly, ever-so slowly, his lips curl up into a smile; laughing almost in disbelievement as he stares up at you with newfound hope in his eyes.

“Really?” he breathes.

“Really,” you echo, bending down and pressing a quick kiss to the crown of his head.

“So he’s coming, Steve’s coming!” he grins, pulling away and tearing the offending newspaper into two, “knew it was just a fuckin’ lie, can never trust a Nazi.”

Death doesn’t lie.

And yet....you can’t bring yourself to tell him the truth.


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: torture, implied suicide, mentions of death, slightly sacrilegious
> 
> I'm back! Sorry for the long wait, but I'm finally getting back into the writing groove :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

As much as you hate it, you can’t always stay by Bucky’s side.

War doesn’t end in an instant, and there are many deaths to be accounted for before the conflict can draw to a close. Dictators fallen from grace and soldiers sacrificing their lives. Mothers and sweethearts wasting away as their men break the vow to return. Soldiers turned to veterans haunted by the ghosts of a war they never truly left, throwing themselves into your arms and crying into your aching shoulder. Blood drying and wiped away as leaders try to polish the marble countertop of the world. Pink stains forever marring the pearly white perfection (though let’s be honest, the stone was already pockmarked and mottled from the horrors of centuries past).

And, distracted as you are, the next time you see Bucky Barnes is the last.

The room is dark, dimly lit by a sickly orange glow that casts over the floor like spilled turpentine. A low, mechanical hum echoing through the chamber almost like a heartbeat. Buzzing in your ears as the walls close in on you like collapsing ruins, eyes focusing on the heart wrenching state of your love.

He’s strapped to a chair in the center of the room. A throne formed from metal and malice, a twisted crown of titanium hovering over his blackened temples. A weave of thorns atop his brow as he’s marched to the cross. His eyes lock onto yours, desperate and deep like the cliff that had started this whole mess. Your name on his lips as a rubber guard is shoved between his teeth, choking on his own tongue as he keens. A pitchy, pleading note that tugs on your heartstrings like a spider plucking its web.

Like a ship unmoored, you shift closer. Crashing to shore as you fall to your knees before him, clutching his hand and pressing your lips to his bleeding knuckles.

“James, darling,” you whisper, eyes burning with tears left unshed, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” 

He’s quiet, words garbled by the mouthguard as his fingers flex weakly in yours. Pulse quickening and voice rising in a panicked crescendo as the surrounding scientists move to press a button on the console. Shaking his head feebly as the headset descends upon him like a vicious predator, electricity crackling menacingly as metal makes contact with skin.

Death stops for no one.

And for once, you’re grateful for it.

He screams, he  _ howls. _ Pain so deep and gutting that it strikes a chord even in you, a being who’s never even felt it before (physically, at least). Primal and animalistic, grinding his vocal chords like knives against whetstone. Pain stacked atop pain like a block tower of pure agony. Face twisted and tendons pressing up against the skin of his neck as he screams himself hoarse. Voice clicking in his throat as his chest heaves with uneven, choppy breaths that leave him lightheaded and gasping between shouts.

His grip on your fingers turns bruising. The pain nonexistent as his flesh hand curls around yours and squeezes tight. Knuckles white as his hand trembles uncontrollably over your own. Life flickering in his chest like a dying candle, moments away from being snuffed out. Soul quivering as it cowers in his chest like a feral animal beaten into submission.

“James,” you comfort, reaching up and phasing your opposite hand through his chest. His soul winding around your fingers like a silk ribbon, “it’ll be okay, darling. Just...please.”

Is it selfish, to ask him for this? To ask him to take the plunge and trust you? Would you be saving him, or would it be best to leave him; to condemn him to a fate arguably worse than death. A fate you inadvertently had a hand in.

_ “Please,”  _ you beg, heart plummeting to your stomach as his soul slips out of your grip. Safely caged behind his ribs as the machine finally whirs to a stop, leaving him empty-eyed and rigid. His grip on your hand slackening until he lets go altogether.

He doesn’t die that day.

Though he may as well have.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think, I love reading your comments. :)


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